


my world is filled with cheer and you

by epiproctan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Background Veronica/Acxa, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Christmas Smut, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Mistletoe, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Secret Santa, season 8 didn't happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 14:53:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17143820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epiproctan/pseuds/epiproctan
Summary: Amid the chaos of meeting Lance's family and experiencing his first real Christmas festivities, Keith doesn't know where he's going to find the time to finally show Lance how he feels. But one thing is for certain: he's determined to beat Lance to it.





	my world is filled with cheer and you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [googlyeyeseyes123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/googlyeyeseyes123/gifts).



> MERRY CHRISTMAS MAI! Surprise, I’m your Secret Santa!! I hope you enjoy this minimal plot, maximum fluff fic since you deserve the happiest of holidays uwu 
> 
> thanks, as always, to Moth for betaing <3
> 
> [fic playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLBIe9DKdZeMBQhIPEymBd3gFyffuOl_NY)

It’s sort of an open invitation, all around. Of course, there isn’t anyone who would turn away the once-orphan, the boy with no terrestrial family anyway. The Holts hadn’t specifically invited him, but Shiro had when he’d told him he was spending Christmas with them. Hunk’s family has already been cooking for a week. Coran, Allura, and Romelle are holding a gathering for delegates and refugees. A dozen other people are doing a dozen other things, with their families, with their friends, and all of them have told him that he’s welcome to spend the holidays with them.

“Hey man,” Lance says, hands in his pockets as he strolls up, casual as anything. “You doing anything on the 25th?” 

And that’s how Keith ends up agreeing to spend Christmas with the McClains. 

* * *

It’s Christmastime, and the war is over.

It’s the first winter without dark purple warships bruising the sky over the heads of the population of Earth, and the opportunity for celebration is appreciated with a sore desperation. Personnel of every rank are peer pressured out of the Garrison offices and away from any spacecraft to keep them from trying to work through the holidays. Keith hadn’t understood the importance of any of it until he saw the eager bustle all around him; beaten-down faces everywhere were cracking open with long-unseen smiles. He’s never been big on holidays himself because he’s never had any reason to be. He’s never had the nostalgic attraction to the music or the decorations, never known the selfless joy of gift-giving. He’s never had Christmas. But by the time Lance has begun badgering him about packing he’s come to understand their positive influence on his surroundings, even just in the bubbling way Lance can’t stop talking about it.

“It’s going to be snowy in the northeast,” Lance tells him. “It’s not like the desert.”

Some distant relation of Lance’s has a house near what’s left of Maine, and it’s one of the few remaining in the family that’s still standing after the invasion. Everyone with the barest connection to them is supposedly converging on the location. Lance spends some time waxing nostalgic about childhood Christmases in Cuba, but he’s already ferried most of his family up north in the Red Lion. According to him, they’re preparing the house for the biggest Christmas celebration this side of the Arkellion Sector. 

Keith doesn’t have the heart to point out that Earth is the only planet that celebrates Christmas on either side of the Arkellion sector. The excited smile on Lance’s face lights him up from the inside in a way that he’s still struggling to keep up with, and he finds himself continuing to think about it when he folds his new parka into his duffle bag. 

It’s two days before his first Christmas ever, and Keith pilots the Black Lion to the house, Kosmo as his only passenger. It was a Paladin group decision to keep the lions at hand even during the holiday festivities, and Keith knows that the sight of the Red Lion and the Black Lion parked side-by-side on the lawn of a nondescript, suburban home like a pair of matching minivans is going to make quite the view. 

“We can deck them out in Christmas lights!” Lance had joked when they’d decided on this plan, but Keith isn’t sure there’s any string of lights long enough to make the Black Lion look properly festive. 

But there’s a second unspoken benefit to him taking his lion. It means he has a space of his own. He gets some time to prepare himself before landing. From what he understands, the house is big, but no house is big enough that the leader of Voltron won’t find himself at the center of the attention of the twenty-something people who are joining the McClain Christmas extravaganza. Keith’s not dumb. He knows he’s a big deal. Not just in the universe, but also specifically to this family. 

It’s going to be loud. It’s going to be crowded. It’s going to be filled with strangers who know him not only as the Paladin of the Black Lion, but also as that guy who Lance has been spending a  _ lot _ of time with. Keith sighs. The things we do for— 

Well, anyway, Keith wants to make a good impression. These people are important to Lance. Their opinions matter. Plus they were nice enough to invite him for a holiday as personal and important as Christmas. Keith really takes the time in his lion on the way over to try and come to terms with all of these things. 

And if he needs to escape at any point, he can just hop in the lion. Not a big deal. 

There’s already a blanket of snow laid out over the ground when he parks the Black Lion in a crouch beside where the Red Lion is sat neatly. The white rises up in a swirling puff around him when he lowers the lion into its soft cushion, and while he waits for it to settle he takes a moment to close his eyes and inhale deeply. In, out. 

It’s just Lance’s family. Nothing like saving the universe, or fighting some evil aliens. 

And it’s just Lance. It’s not like they’re dating or anything. It’s not like either of them has  _ talked _ about what they are, or what’s going on between them.

Even though there may or may not definitely be  _ something _ going on between them.

When Keith steps out into the ankle-deep snow, Kosmo bounding eagerly at his heels and his duffle hooked over his shoulder, Lance is already standing out in the front yard grinning at him, his hands shoved into his coat pockets and his ears pink from the cold. 

“Nice of you to show up,” Lance calls out. 

“I told you I was on my way over,” Keith replies, watching as Kosmo races to greet Lance, kicking up powder in his wake. Lance crouches to meet him, holding his arms open for the inevitable face-licking. 

It’s soft to watch, the feeling of it curling around Keith like the steam that rises off the surface of hot coffee and warming him despite the weather. Lance thoroughly ruffles Kosmo’s fur and Kosmo makes sure he has an appropriately wet and enthusiastic greeting before he begins prancing through the snow again, snapping at the light flurry that’s falling. 

Lance sits there grinning at the wolf for a minute, and Keith is abruptly speared through with determination. This, here, is what he wants. This, with Kosmo happily leaping and twisting in the air, Lance smiling, and Keith right at his side. Keith knows he has to act. It’s the right time. The war is over, and this holiday is about relaxing with the people you care about. And Keith cares. God, does Keith care. He wants to show it more than ever. 

Not that Keith has spent a long time ruminating over this or anything, but he has a theory. He’s begun to wonder if the reason neither of them has progressed past the stage of supportive friends who make a lot of prolonged eye contact and argue as an excuse to flirt and worm their way next to each other at every possible opportunity is his own fault. If it’s because Lance has grand, romantic ideas of how a relationship is supposed to begin, with heart-stopping kisses and flowery confessions of feelings. If it’s because Keith is more restrained, at least when it comes to people he cares about and doesn’t want to scare away.

If that’s the case, and Keith has the presence of mind to suspect that it is, this holiday is an unparalleled opportunity. And there’s no way in hell he’s going to allow Lance to make a move like that before he does. He’s going to sweep him off his feet. Prove to him that he’s the one who can support him, after Lance spent all that time being the foundation he rests his leadership on. 

Keith even considers taking the half-step forward now, reaching down to Lance, hauling him to his feet, pressing his lips to his chill-bitten cheeks, but before he can, Lance turns the sunny smile up towards him. 

“Wanna head inside?” he asks. 

The determination drains and leaves a sticky dread in its wake. Right. Still gotta meet the family. That’s step one.

After holding the door open for Keith and following him through, Lance taps the snow off his boots and removes them in a high-ceiling foyer. Keith can already hear it: the sounds of many people living, coexisting. At first, it strikes him as similar to the atmosphere of some of the places he’s been through in the foster system, but instead of being crowded and dark, it manifests in other, brighter ways. Muffled upbeat Christmas music blasts from behind some closed door upstairs. Voices chatter and laugh in an unseen room. The sound of some kind of pet pitterpatters above their heads, making Kosmo’s ears perk up. The air is steeped in the scent of home cooking, heavy with garlic and spice.

“Keith’s here!” Lance calls through the house, making Keith tense involuntarily. 

“Oh, Keith!” comes the shouted response from the kitchen, pleased and eager. Grinning, Lance follows it to its source. 

Keith has met some of Lance’s family before. Of course, Veronica. Beyond her, Lance’s parents had been nice enough to stop by and bring him some leftover snacks when Keith was recovering in the hospital after the battle for Earth, but Keith had been pretty high on pain meds for a lot of those interactions. His memory of them is spotty at best, meaning his mom is probably more familiar with Lance’s family at this point than he is. But she’s out cleaning up Galra loyal to the old regime somewhere in the Kleptar System, so Keith is on his own. 

The person standing at the stove over an enormous pot of steaming something is someone who Keith recognizes instantly as Lance’s mother. He feels lucky that she’s the only one in the room. Baby steps, one at a time. She’s beaming at the two of them, as though she couldn’t be more pleased about any two people stepping into the kitchen. 

“It’s wonderful to see you, Keith!” she says, and Keith can see where Lance got his boisterousness from. “We’re so glad you came.”

Lance crosses to where a wooden spoon is resting beside the stove. He dips it into the pot and then raises it to nibble food off the end, ignoring the way his mother smacks him on the arm. Keith finds himself smiling at the display, even as she wrenches the spoon out of Lance’s hand without breaking her grin. 

“Thanks for having me,” Keith replies, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. He’s gotten better at dealing with people over the years, but situations like this still feel like tightroping over the gaping opportunity for a spectacular fuck up. He wants Lance’s family to like him. He wants it so bad. He knows he’s already got Veronica on his side, but what would that mean against a poor first impression with mom or dad? What if the older brothers gang up on him, the nieces and nephews decide he’s not fun enough or not cool enough or not handsome enough? 

“It’s our pleasure, sweetheart,” Lance’s mother coos. Keith’s never been called sweetheart before, and definitely not in the honeyed, maternal voice she uses. His heart flutters. “We’re always happy to have Lance’s boyfriend around.”

Keith’s eyes fly wide, his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he feels the blood flood his face. 

“ _ Mooooom _ ,” Lance protests loudly. 

“It’s not—,” Keith tries, looking wildly from a pink-cheeked Lance to his mother and then back again. “We’re not….”

“Oh, is that how it is?” Lance’s mother asks with a wink. 

Keith’s cheeks and neck are hot, and Lance is shoving at his mother’s face and complaining that she needs to pay more attention to what’s on the stove, but there’s a warmth settling in Keith’s stomach. He’s embarrassed, but he’s not unhappy. This isn’t a bad sign. 

After extricating themselves from the kitchen, Keith and Lance do a cursory round of introductions. Keith’s head swims, but he has enough experience now with meeting dozens of new people at a time from various universe liberation activities that he thinks he could probably match a name to a face when he needs to. And Lance is right beside him the entire time, guiding him through awkward small talk and cueing him in on when to fake laughter at bad jokes. 

The house is big, a mansion by any standards, but given the number of people here, it’s not everyone-gets-their-own-room big. Luckily, Keith only has to share a small back guest room with Lance.  _ Un _ luckily, Keith only has to share a small back guest room with Lance. The bed looks just barely big enough for them to lay side-by-side and not touch shoulders, he finds when he enters. Lance’s stuff, his skincare, his clothes, the smell of him, are already scattered around the cozy room. 

“I told them we could just sleep in our lions,” Lance says, “but they said that wasn’t any way to treat a guest.” 

Keith drops his duffle on the floor as Kosmo hops up onto the bed and makes himself completely at home there. Keith frowns, eyeing it. There’s no way it’s going to be a comfortable fit. Especially not when Kosmo jumps up on the bed in the middle of the night and curls up around him. 

It’s going to mean some cuddling. Keith suddenly feels a little dizzy.

“I mean, we could still sleep in our lions anyway!” Lance says quickly, possibly seeing the expression that Keith isn’t skilled enough to keep off his face. “There’s plenty of room there, and uh, not a lot here….”

“It’s fine,” Keith says, because he doesn’t know how to do anything but present bravery, even though he knows that it’s not fine. Snuggling up with Lance at night is definitely not fine. But...it could be nice. 

“Cool, cool.” Lance shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks at the ground. “Wanna go see if my mom’s still making any food? We can steal some of it.”

If it’s anything like the warm smells that are wafting through the house then yes, Keith does. 

As they’re leaving the room, the door across the hallway from them opens as well, and a figure fills the doorway. Keith stops short in shock.

“Acxa?” he says, completely incredulous. 

She also stops in the doorway opposite. Behind her, Veronica’s glasses and brown hair appear over her shoulder.

“Hello Keith,” she says with a nod, as though she’s not surprised to see him here at all.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Veronica pushes past both of them into the hallway, grinning.

“She’s with me,” she says, giving Lance a pointed look as she goes by. “Apparently being into half-Galrans runs in the family.”

“Veronica!” squawks Lance, but she’s already halfway down the hallway and laughing, with Acxa sticking close behind. 

Determinedly not looking at Keith, Lance stalks off stiffly and follows them. It’s cute, and it’s embarrassing, and Keith can feel a warm glow blooming low in his gut. 

* * *

“I’ve never baked cookies before.”

Lance’s hands freeze. From the mixing bowl in front of him, his eyes slowly and deliberately drift up to meet Keith’s. 

“You’ve  _ what _ ?” he chokes. 

Keith shrugs. “I’ve never baked cookies before.” 

It’s true. His dad wasn’t huge on that kind of thing, out in the middle of the desert. He lived a pretty Spartan lifestyle in the foster system, and once he arrived at the Garrison there wasn’t time for things like that. Then suddenly there was the desert again, and then the war, and, well, Keith’s never baked cookies before. 

“Oh my god,” Lance says. “I can’t believe we’re about to pop your cookie baking cherry. Come on, dude, let’s get your hands washed. This is Hunk’s recipe so prepare to have your socks knocked off.”

So Keith obeys Lance’s instructions, first going to the sink to wash his hands, and then rolling up the sleeves of his sweater at the countertop. From there Lance has him measuring out ingredients, flour, sugar, butter, salt, in cute, neat, tiny spoons. 

“I said tablespoons, not teaspoons!” Lance says, tutting over Keith’s shoulder. 

“What’s the difference?” Keith snaps, accidentally spilling sugar as he goes. 

“Here,” Lance says, softer, sliding up beside Keith at the counter. He brushes his fingers over Keith’s on the measuring spoons, flipping to the right one. “Tablespoon has a big T. How did you pass fourth-grade math, man?”

His hand still hovering over Keith’s, he guides Keith through measuring out the new amount and dumping it into the big mixing bowl. His grip is surprisingly soft where it fits around Keith’s knuckles. He has none of the calluses of living in the desert, none of the ones that Keith developed from holding his sword and his blade. He takes good care of his hands. Keith can summon the image of him carefully rubbing lotion in circles into his skin, taking time devoted to the care of himself. 

Keith finds himself ogling his hands instead of paying attention to the mixing. They’re a captivating deep shade, slender and lean in the fingers. He keeps his nails neat and even, and unlike Keith’s, there aren’t any hangnails near the cuticles. They’re pretty, wrapped around the handle of the wooden spoon Lance is using to spin the whole mixture together. Almost delicate, if Keith didn’t know the warfare they’re capable of. There’s strength in them too, and gentleness, and Keith tries not to think of all the places they could burn against him if he had his way.

Then those hands are sprinkling flour over the counter, white and powdery as the snow outside, and it’s clinging to Keith’s fingers, to the creases and folds of his fingerprints and his knuckles. Lance grabs the dough with one hand and a handful of flour with the other, but instead of spreading it on the dough, he opens his hand and blows a puff of air against it. A cloud of it floats into Keith’s face. 

“Hey!” Keith protests, blinking, sniffling, and bent on revenge he instinctively lunges for the bag of flour. It tips over and spills fine white dust across the counter, but Keith doesn’t pay it any attention. He pinches as much as he can grasp between his fingers and jerks towards Lance, smearing it first into Lance’s hair, then across his cheek. 

Lance hoots a laugh and tries to duck out of the range of Keith’s reach. It’s futile. Keith leans into his space, grinning, and wipes the palm of his flour-coated hand over Lance’s chin. Shrieking, Lance counters by shoving both hands against Keith’s cheeks, leaving palm prints in white. They grapple with each other, laughing, Lance’s hands on Keith’s face, Keith’s hands dragging down Lance’s chest, spreading flour over his burgundy sweater. 

Their puffing laughter has them springing for each other’s hair at the exact same time, Lance’s right hand outstretched, Keith’s fingers doused in white. It brings Lance’s face, his open grin from ear to ear, the bright sparkle of his eyes, a lot closer to Keith than he anticipated, and the realization manifests all at once as Keith’s heart flipping in his chest. He freezes with his hands on Lance’s shoulders, and Lance settles, in turn, the smile sliding off his face to mirror Keith’s wide-eyed expression. 

_ This is it _ , Keith thinks. Knows. He instinctively tilts his head. He’s not blind to the fact that this is exactly the sort of moment he’s been waiting for. It’s an opportunity to make things between them what he wants them to be. What he thinks Lance wants them to be as well. They’ve both been putting it off, out of other priorities, out of nerves, out of fear, but here, in this warm kitchen with their hands on each other’s faces, Keith can finally,  _ finally _ make Lance know exactly what it is that he feels about him. 

The kitchen around them fades from his consciousness. The sounds of the family filling the house around them dials back until it’s nothing more than a buzzing in the back of his head. He’s focused completely on Lance now, on the way his skin is smooth and flawless, the way his lips look soft and inviting, the way his eyes have gone soft and serious. It would only take leaning forward a few inches now, crossing that tiny gap. 

After traversing the entire universe, one would think a space this small would be manageable. But Keith’s heart pounds louder in his ears than it did in any battle. It’s frightening how much he wants it, how much the warmth and desire that fills his chest threatens to consume him completely. Of all the challenges and the obstacles in his life, this shouldn’t be a hard one. 

He leans forward. 

“ _ UNCLE LAAAAANCE _ !”

Keith jumps back just as one of Lance’s nephews tears into the room, barefoot, teary-eyed, and waving what looks like a bayard, if bayards were fashioned of cardboard and colored with Crayola. Keith looks towards the floor, but he can feel Lance giving him one long, lingering look before he crouches down to his nephew’s eye level. 

“What’s up, buddy?” he asks. 

“We’re playing Voltron and I want to be the orange paladin but Nadia said I can’t because there’s no orange lion!!” He sniffles. “Can you tell her there’s an orange lion?”

Lance looks up to exchange an amused glance with Keith. The mood between them has melted like snow on asphalt under the hot sun. But it’s not awkward now. It’s just them, as it’s always been. 

“Alright,” Lance says, hefting himself to his feet and grabbing his nephew’s hand. “Let’s go have a chat about how being a Paladin of Voltron means playing nice.”

Leaning back against the counter, Keith watches them leave the room, saving his sigh for when they’re out of earshot. 

* * *

It’s not as bad as Keith had expected. Spending time with Lance’s family, that is. It’s wild, loud. It feels almost like one of those slow diplomatic dinners but with significantly more laughter and screaming children. Keith’s grown to be able to handle those, and by extension, he can handle this.

In fact, as it goes on, it gets easier. Starts to feel less like some sort of trial he needs to pass in order to move to his next objective, and something he could settle into and enjoy. Everyone is friendly, cheerful, pleased just to be alive and able to spend time with those that they love. And Lance sits at his side the entire time, smiling and joking and exuding the kind of happiness that Keith feels in his heart Lance truly deserves. 

Also, at the very least, there’s no way Keith can be the most awkward person at the table when Acxa’s there. He’s grateful for her presence too. They both excuse themselves between dinner and dessert to stand outside in the snow for a few moments, appreciating the quiet before sharing a sympathetic nod and heading back into the fray. 

Afterward Keith washes the dishes with Luis, and they talk jovially about hoverbikes. Rachel compliments him on his sweater when he passes her in the hall. After everything is cleaned up, Lance’s aunt comes around with spiked eggnog for the adults, and the family gathers around an old piano near the towering Christmas tree that had been erected in the living room, its boughs heavy with lights and gleaming round ornaments in red and gold. Even though Keith’s never really had a Christmas tree of his own, something that he hadn’t even noticed was tight in his chest gives at the sight of it. 

He finds himself squeezed between Lance’s uncle and a cousin as another relative sits at the piano and starts in on the opening chords of a carol. Around him, the voices of Lance’s family swell in song. Keith doesn’t know all the words, but he murmurs along where he can. Possibly anticipating his discomfort, Lance nudges up next to him with a grin, his hand landing somewhere on Keith’s lower back in the process. He leaves it there, and Keith loses himself in the sensation of the warmth through his sweater, the way Lance’s voice mixes with those of his family, and lets himself sing. 

“You sure you don’t want me to sleep in Red?” Lance asks while they’re getting ready for bed. 

Keith is warm with affection, with a bit of eggnog in his belly and with the tingle of the place where Lance’s hand had rested all through the carols. He turns from changing his shirt to see Lance looking at him, cheeks rosy.

“I’m sure,” Keith replies. 

He thinks he catches Lance saying, “Nice,” under his breath before sprawling out on the bed. 

Once the lights are out and Kosmo has settled heavy across their feet, Keith considers making his move now. He can hear Lance’s breathing, close enough in the bed that his emanating warmth prickles along Keith’s skin. But when he turns to look at Lance, with the light from a streetlamp outside illuminating the curves of his face, playing in his eyelashes, he decides instead to just hold this moment in his chest, nestling it right between his lungs and his heart. 

* * *

It’s Christmas Eve, and that means a breakfast of pancakes stacked high. Lance drowns his entire plate in syrup, bacon and all, and wiggles slices of it at Keith when he makes a face in disgust.

After the meal the kids line up at the front door, stamping and kicking like thoroughbreds at the starting gate as they pull on their gloves and their hats, as their parents tug their scarves tight. As soon as the door is open, they stream out into the snow, laughing and screaming. 

Keith and Lance follow them outside at their own leisure, Kosmo leaping after them, along the footprint-trodden path through the snow that leads to a riotous snowball fight. 

“Reminds me of that time with those spores,” Lance says from behind him, right before Keith feels a shocking cold against the back of his neck. 

Keith spins instinctively, ready to launch a counterattack as cold chunks of ice melt down his spine. But Lance is already sprinting away and laughing. Keith huffs and gives chase. 

The high snow impedes his speed, and Lance’s headstart puts him already paces ahead of Keith. He grins over his shoulder as he goes crashing across the lawn, spraying up swirls of snow in his wake. Keith thunders after him, Kosmo bounding at his side, and leans to scoop up a handful of white powder as he goes, compressing it between his hands. He launches it towards Lance but it goes wide, and Lance pauses for a moment to taunt Keith with more laughter. 

Keith lunges towards him, stumbling over the pristine snow. Lance dances away, bends at the waist, pats together a perfectly round snowball, and nails Keith directly in the center of his chest with it. 

“Haha!” Lance crows. “That’s why they call me the sharpshooter!”

Keith wipes snow off the front of his parka, and slowly raises his head to look at Lance. “Oh, it’s on now.”

The expression on Lance’s face morphs from a teasing grin to something dark and determined in the shape of a smirk. They both bend to grab snow from the ground, heads bent up and watching each other. Lance rises and cranes his hand back to make his shot. 

As soon as the snowball leaves Lance’s fingertips, Keith buries his hand in the fur on Kosmo’s head. They crackle out of existence, and then together blink back feet away from where the projectile is now sailing through empty air.

“Hey! That’s cheating!” Lance shouts, whirling to spot Keith. 

Keith smirks and lobs his own snowball. This time it hits Lance right in the shoulder, leaving him squawking indignantly. He makes determined eye contact and charges right towards Keith with a yell, not stopping to even arm himself with more snow. Keith watches him with eyes wide, and takes a staggering step back. 

But it’s too late. Lance springs. 

He hits Keith square in the chest, plowing him over into the fluffy and cold embrace of the snow. He settles his weight squarely on Keith’s hips, grabs a handful of snow with a rake of his hand, and smooshes it into Keith’s face, despite Keith’s protests and kicking. 

“Ugh! Lance!” Keith laughs through the cold, trying to shake him off. 

But in the next moment, he feels the soft fabric of Lance’s gloves on his face, wiping away the wetness from his eyes and his cheeks. Keith goes still beneath his touch and looks up to see Lance’s expression has changed again. Where once was the unbridled smile is now a shape more subtle, but softer. His eyes are full of something warm and sweet that makes Keith’s lungs strain. 

Lance’s body is hot on top of his, living, breathing, blood pumping through his veins. It’s enough for Keith to take notice of what a work of art he is, how every movement seems designed to capture Keith’s attention completely. Slowly, unthinkingly, Keith props himself up on his elbows, just because something in Lance’s face is drawing him closer, closer. He goes in search of it and finds the snowflakes still perfectly formed in Lance’s eyelashes, the hair curling out from under the brim of his hat. 

Lance licks his lips. Keith follows the movement with his eyes, and then returns his gaze to Lance’s own, bright and soft and blue. 

With a deep inhale, with his heart thudding in his chest, Keith shuts his eyes and leans up towards him. 

“Hey, Lance?” 

The voice carries across the lawn from the direction of the house. Lance sits bolt upright, and Keith collapses back into the snow with a quiet  _ oof _ , eyes still closed. 

“What’s up, Marco?” Lance calls back, shakily rising to his feet. 

The crunch of footsteps comes closer. 

“Where did you put my—oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were...busy.”

Face red from embarrassment and from the cold, Keith sits up and pushes himself to his feet, not looking at either of the McClains in front of him. 

“I’m not busy!” Lance says quickly, already steering his brother back towards the house. “What were you looking for?”

As they walk off towards the door together, chatting, Lance turns over his shoulder and says, “I’ll be right back, sorry!”

Keith watches him go, then shrugs and turns towards the gaggle of kids jumping through the snow. Time to teach some kids what real battle is like.

* * *

It’s already late afternoon by the time everyone returns inside. The lawn is no longer a broad swath of smooth, sparkling white, but a rugged, churned terrain pocked with snow angels and leaning snowmen. Keith can see the long shadows creeping over it from where he chops vegetables by the kitchen window. Somewhere behind him near the stove Lance is humming  _ Jingle Bells _ and the notes catch in Keith’s chest like the snowflakes that caught in Lance’s hair.

Again, the family dinner is boisterous. There’s enough food on the table to rival even Hunk’s most ambitious meals, and Keith eats so many slices of fried plantains that he starts to feel sick. 

“You won’t bite my hand off if I rub your belly, will you?” Lance asks when Keith tells him this. 

Keith will, so he bats Lance’s hand away when he jokingly tries. Even if the thought of Lance touching him makes his cheeks feel warm. 

Regardless, they’re still close. Too close, almost, because Keith feels like he’s on fire. There are too many people squeezed onto this couch now, and Keith’s options are to either be pressed entirely up against Lance to his right or Lance’s grandma to his left. Despite the way any kind of contact with Lance steals his breath right from his lungs, or maybe because of it, he chooses the option that includes Lance’s leg pressed against his own ankle to hip, Lance’s ribcage jostling against him when he breathes, Lance’s shoulders in so close it’s more comfortable for him to drape his arm across the back of the couch behind Keith. 

Keith tries not to pay too much attention to it. It’s only because there’s no room here. Otherwise, Lance wouldn’t be so bold. And it’s not as though Lance has his arm  _ around _ him. It’s just hanging incredibly close to his shoulders, suspended  _ above _ him. Not the same thing at all. 

There’s a fire crackling joyfully in the red brick fireplace, on and around which a couple dozen mismatched stockings are nailed to the wall. Keith has one up there too. It’s not much more than a plain red sock, but his heart had swelled when Lance’s mother had handed it to him and told him to hang it with the others. Keith has never hung a stocking before. 

On the other end of the room, the tree twinkles gleefully. Every surface, table, chair, and bit of floor space between here and there is taken up by people sipping hot chocolate and watching the pop and spark of the fire. There’s some sort of elaborate Santa-summoning ceremony going on at present, and though Keith is trying to follow it he finds himself far more enraptured by the sound of Lance’s breathing immediately beside him, the way he laughs whenever one of his nieces or nephews or little cousins does something charmingly childish, or when one of his siblings cracks a loud joke. A number of frosting-heavy cookies have been arranged on a plate next to the fire. One of the kids is struggling through reading a book about Santa aloud. 

“Alright!” Lance’s mom says, standing up. “If we don’t go to bed now, Santa’s not going to come!” 

The children break into a chorus of complaints, protests, and eager speculation on the next day’s events, but a cadre of well-trained adults begin to wrangle them towards the stairs. Those who remain leisurely watch them go before slowly breaking off and retreating to other parts of the house, all with excuses of still having presents to wrap. 

Eventually, only Lance and Keith are left sitting together on the couch, and Keith has made the distinct observation that although there’s now plenty of room on either side of them, Lance hasn’t made any motion to unglue himself from Keith’s side. They’ve been granted stewardship over the dwindling flame, a task that suits Keith well, but he isn’t quite ready to get up and tend to it yet. 

He wants to stay here with his hip pressed against Lance’s. Lance’s arm hovering over his shoulders. Lance’s voice low and happy in his ear. 

“Think Santa’s going to bring you anything?” Lance asks. 

Keith turns his face towards him, and even though they’re close enough that Keith can feel Lance’s breath on his skin, it’s not uncomfortable. It feels like he was made to be this close to Lance, like they’ve always been supposed to occupy the same space. Keith knows this is partially the strong mind bond left from Voltron. Once you’ve been connected to someone through mysterious alien magic, physical closeness isn’t the discomfort that Keith had always considered it to be. 

But Lance is different. There’s another layer to this. 

“Doubt it,” Keith says, letting his lips curl into a grin. “He never has before.”

Lance stills, and for a moment Keith thinks he’s ruined their airy mood. But then Keith feels the sensation of something gently tugging on the ends of the back of his hair and realizes that Lance is twirling it in his fingers. 

“Well,” he says. “Have you been good this year?”

Keith snorts. “Does saving the universe count as being good?” 

He almost lets slip a sigh at the incomparable feeling of Lance’s fingers in his hair. It’s gotten longer, brushing his shoulders, and even though Lance still mercilessly teases him over his mullet, he thinks he’s never going to cut his hair again if it feels this good in Lance’s hands. 

“We’ll just have to see tomorrow morning, won’t we?” Lance says with a wink. 

Keith knows this atmosphere. He embodies it, feels it thrumming in all his bones. He steels himself. Somehow he’s drawn in even closer, close enough that he could brush the tips of their noses together. 

“Guess so,” he says. 

The fingers in Keith’s hair slow, the motions deliberate and smooth as Lance’s half smile glows in the shine of the Christmas tree. 

“What kind of present are you hoping for?” Lance asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Lance’s every exhale is audible from this distance, and so when Keith angles his head and closes his eyes, he hears the distinct hitch in his breathing. Keith takes it as encouragement and shifts his weight to lean in and—

_ CRASH _

Something in the hallway clatters to the floor, and in the next second Veronica’s cat hurdles, yowling, around the corner, a growling and snapping Kosmo immediately on its heels. Keith leaps up from the couch to contain the wolf but the cat has already flung itself up the drapes, its claws sunk into the thick fabric, as Kosmo dances around from foot to foot at the base. 

“Hey,” Keith says, reaching out, and Kosmo’s ears pick up. “What’s going on?”

Kosmo looks from the cat, to Keith, back to the cat, and whines. 

“He probably just senses the insane demonic energy coming off that thing,” Lance says, also rising from the couch. Keith feels a disproportionate pang of disappointment at this. Their moment has already been shattered, but now there isn’t any way for them to glue it back together. “I love cats, but this one’s kind of a monster.”

As if to prove it, when Lance reaches up to unhook the cat from the drapes, it spits and bats at his hand, claws out. He finally gets his hands around it and, shaking his head, carries it away and out of the room. 

Keith sighs and squats to scratch Kosmo where he likes it, behind his ears. Kosmo pants loudly in his face, wagging his tail and dripping drool onto the floor. 

“I’ll definitely do it tomorrow,” Keith vows to him. 

Kosmo steps in and licks a warm, wet, encouraging stripe up Keith’s cheek. 

* * *

Apparently romping in the snow and helping arrange presents under the tree is enough to completely drain Keith and Lance these days, because they both pass out as soon as they hit the mattress. The next time Keith awakens it’s to the sounds of screaming and their door banging in its frame and many sets of frantic footsteps outside in the hall. He already has his blade out before he realizes that Lance is laughing at him, and the screams are shouts of excitement, not cries for help.

The room is barely lit by the drowsy sun, and Lance is still in his white thermal and blue plaid bottoms he wore to bed. He stands in the filtered dawn light by the window, smiling as he watches Keith groggily come to his senses and slide the blade back into its sheath under his pillow. 

“Merry Christmas,” Lance says. 

Keith blinks at him, the way his shirt clings to war-defined muscle and the natural leanness of his frame, the way his smile is brighter than the blinding gleam of light off the snow outside. He should be the star at the top of the tree, Keith thinks. The angel for the entire world to worship and adore. 

“Merry Christmas,” Keith replies, awed to breathlessness. 

“Ready to head downstairs?” Lance asks. “The kids aren’t allowed to see if Santa came until everyone’s there.”

The array of presents is truly impressive. There hadn’t been much time or energy for holidays during wartime, and there are even members of the extended family who had spent their last winters in Galra workcamps. This doesn’t make up for those difficult years, but it is a start to return to the children what was stolen from them by the Galra Empire: their innocent, uncorrupted joy. 

Almost immediately on being set upon, the collection of neatly-wrapped, perfectly-ribboned gifts in the area around the Christmas tree becomes a war zone of rumpled wrapping paper, discarded ribbon, boxes hastily dug into, and the  _ oohs  _ and  _ ahhs _ of kids getting exactly what they wanted. The adults gather around to take pictures and share vicariously in the joy of being satisfied by having the most exciting new toys. Laughter and shouts of joy preside over the scene, and Keith finds himself drawn to the pure and free happiness that buzzes around the room. 

It doesn’t end once Santa’s presents are torn open and scattered across the ground. Then the adults begin trading gifts amongst each other, and even more for the children. Keith hands out the small items he’s thankful he thought to bring for everyone. They’re not particularly tailored to the individual, just various knick-knacks that he’s picked up across the universe, but everyone seems grateful to receive anything at all. He gets presents from Lance’s family in response: a warm sweater from Lance’s parents, a beautiful framed photograph of the paladins from Veronica, a dozen little, useless things that overwhelm Keith just because they mean someone  _ thought _ of him. Acxa even hands him over a shiny new Galra-designed laser gun, which a few of the adults in the family seem horrified to have in the house. Keith runs it out and stores it in the Black Lion before it can cause an uproar. 

For Lance, Keith doesn’t have anything particularly noteworthy. He spent so much time fretting over what he could give him that he ran out of time to do anything in the range of spectacular that he was hoping for. Instead, he finds himself blushing as he hands over the flat and rectangular package he’d wasted far too much tape in wrapping. 

“I hope it—” he tries, and finds himself getting his words all caught and tangled all over his tongue. He looks away and tries again. “I hope it looks better than last time. Uh. You know. I hope you can tell what it is.”

Lance clearly doesn’t know because he hasn’t opened the present yet, so he gives Keith a quizzical look as he slides his fingers under the edges of the wrapping paper. Keith’s heart rate picks up speed as more and more of the object underneath becomes uncovered, as the identity and meaning of it become obvious. Lance lifts it from the discarded husk of its paper and gazes upon it with wide, disbelieving eyes. 

“Holy  _ crap _ ,” he breathes. “You  _ drew  _ this?”

“Uh, yeah,” Keith says, and scratches idly at the back of his neck. “It’s not...it’s nothing special.”

It’s nothing special, not at all, but Keith did spend some long hours on it, and he hopes that makes up for it. He wouldn’t call himself an artist but he does like to draw, and although he isn’t sure he’ll ever forgive Lance for “windy cave” he does think he deserves a chance to prove that when he’s not under pressure sometimes his pencil strokes doesn’t come out  _ absolutely _ horrible. In fact, he thinks the drawing he did of the Red Lion with Lance wielding his bayard in the foreground, meticulously shaded and painstakingly composed, looks averagely decent. 

“Keith, this is incredible,” Lance says, excitement bleeding into his voice. “Thank you so much!”

The buoyant feeling in Keith’s chest, the joy clear in Lance’s expression, tells him that he did good. 

“It’s nothing,” he repeats, but Lance’s smile is so contagious that he can’t keep it off his own face.

When Lance is finally done admiring the picture from every angle and showing it off to all the family members within shouting distance, he finally turns back towards Keith with an eyebrow raised.

“Well  _ I _ didn’t get you anything,” Lance says. “But did you check if Santa did?” 

Lance jerks his head towards the tree, and Keith rolls his eyes good-naturedly before strolling to it and lowering himself to his hands and knees to look beneath. It’s a mess of pine needles and abandoned wrapping paper, but towards the back, Keith can see a rectangular package in the obvious shape of a clothing box. He reaches under to fish it out and drags it back to where Lance is waiting with eager, expectant eyes. 

_ To Keith _ , reads the tag attached in Lance’s loopy script.  _ From Santa _ .

Smiling, Keith rolls his eyes again and flicks the tag at Lance, but he finds his hands shaking as he begins to rip through the paper. This isn’t the first Christmas present he’s ever received. Sometimes foster parents would give a few little trinkets. Being an orphan, Keith was occasionally on the receiving end of well-meaning but often unnoteworthy donations. Before Shiro left for Kerberos he’d make a point to give a little something to Keith every year. But this is the first time Keith’s felt like his heart is expanding to the point where it’s too big for his chest as he lays his hands on the box, and he stops breathing as he lifts the lid. 

There are two things inside the box. The one on the right pulls his attention first, given that it seems to be meant to be eye-catching. Keith huffs as he lifts the black t-shirt out of the box to read what’s printed on it in big red block letters. 

“‘Team leader’?” he says. “Really?” 

“That’s you!” Lance replies.

“Lance, I’m never going to wear this.”

Lance just laughs. “Yeah, you will.”

In the silence of his mind, Keith allows that maybe, probably, yes he will. But for now, he shoves playfully at Lance’s shoulder and refolds the shirt to put back in the box. 

That leaves the object on the right. It’s a small tin, modest, subdued, and unadorned, and Keith raises it out of the box with curiosity. It’s not heavy, and Keith fights the urge to shake it to feel its give and hear what sort of noise it makes. Instead, he puts a finger beneath the lip of the cover and pulls up. 

The first thing that hits him is the soft scent that wafts up from inside, familiar and achingly delicious, making his nostrils flare. He  _ knows _ this smell. It feels tied to his life force. In a hurry, he lifts off the rest of the lid and is confronted by the sight of a rare Galran delicacy, Quonzan truffles, each cradled carefully by a piece of decorative paper. 

“Lance,” Keith says, looking up at him. “How did you—?” 

The Quonzan truffle is difficult to find, Keith knows that. Even more than that, he knows that the permeating smell of it, while melodious to the Galra, has been described by Hunk as “like a wet cat sitting on a heap of rotten eggs” to humans. 

Lance shrugs, looking sheepish. 

“Me and Red went and got them,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “Now if you’ll close the lid of that so I don’t have to smell them ever again, I’d really appreciate that.”

Keith rushes to close the lid, especially since he notices more than a few people in the surrounding area already scrunching up their faces. Acxa, on the other hand, trying on a knit beanie she’s apparently just been gifted, has lifted her nose to the air and is sniffing curiously.  

“Did I get you the best present ever or what,” Lance says, grinning. 

Keith gently taps him on the ankle with his toes. “So it was you.”

“I mean, Santa!” Lance says quickly. “He sure did a good job, huh.”

Keith lets himself laugh. 

“He did. Thank you, Santa.” 

Feeling all sorts of lifted, Keith helps with wrapping paper cleanup. With that finished, some of the adults head to the kitchen to start on lunch, while the children remain scattered throughout the living room, already wearing out their new toys and gadgets. As for Keith, he parks himself in the doorway of the living room and watches, just for a moment, what Christmas is like for kids with families. 

Now he has one of his own too, and his insides warm at the thought. But more than that, he’s proud and pleased to have saved the universe, if only because it means he’s given these kids the opportunity to have this holiday. It makes everything,  _ everything _ , that’s happened up until this point worth it. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Lance saunter up, hands in his back pockets. 

“Hey,” says Lance. 

“Hey,” says Keith. 

Lance leans back against the doorframe, crosses his arms, and looks Keith up and down searchingly. Then he raises his eyebrows. 

For a moment, Keith feels spotlighted, and not in a good way. He glances down to make sure nothing’s wrong with his outfit. He’s wearing the nice red button-down that Shiro had insisted that he iron before putting on. His black pants are spotless. So he turns to Lance again, brow furrowed. 

“Wrong way,” Lance says, and jerks his head upwards. 

Keith looks up. 

Dangling from the doorframe above his head is a sprig of an innocuous, vibrant green plant, wrapped tight around the stems in crimson ribbon, pearl-like white berries dotted amongst the leaves. 

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

Lance pushes himself off the wall and steps closer to Keith, and closer, and closer, until his fingertips are brushing against the back of Keith’s hand, until their feet are toe to toe, until Keith can see the individual flecks of different shades of blue in his radiant irises. 

“I have another present for you,” Lance murmurs, looking down. “The one you wanted last night.”

“Yeah?” It comes out breathless. 

“Yeah. Close your eyes.” 

Keith obeys. He lets it happen. Even if he wanted to be the one to kiss Lance first, the one to sweep Lance off his feet as probably happens in all of Lance’s fantasies, he can let this one go. He’s been waiting for too long, and at this point, he just needs to feel Lance’s lips against his own. 

And it’s okay. It’s okay because he feels good here. Comfortable here. Against all odds, Lance’s family seems to like him.  _ Lance _ seems to like him, despite all his shortcomings and everything they’ve been through together. So in the end, if this is how it goes, Keith really,  _ really _ can’t complain. 

So with his eyes closed, he inhales deeply, and feels through tension and heat rather than sees Lance lean in, hover before him for just a moment, and then, 

The barest hint of pressure, the soft sensation of something brushing against Keith’s mouth, sends Keith’s stomach swooping and his heart rate rocketing. It’s nothing, it’s barely anything, but it’s a promise of something more and a hint of what’s to come and it has his hands shaking in anticipation, in want, with the somehow compatible feelings of both ease and aching desire that fill his bones. 

Lance draws away, just a hair’s breadth, but then he’s surging back in. This time, they meet like they were always meant to, fitting themselves together. Their mouths press against each other, and when Lance sighs Keith opens up to him. Lance’s hands land on his hips, and Keith winds his arms around Lance’s neck, his hand finding a place in his hair to hold him steady against his lips. If he’s lucky they’ll never stop, because this warmth, this soaring feeling in his chest, it’s even better than flying or saving the universe. 

When they do pull apart, they stay tucked together. Lance’s forehead is warm against Keith’s, his breathing steady on his lips. His eyes dance with the reflection of the Christmas tree and an uncontainable joy that Keith feels leaping in his own chest. Lance’s arms are tight around Keith’s waist, and Keith can’t imagine them resting anywhere else. 

“Merry Christmas,” Lance says, grinning.

“Merry Christmas,” Keith replies, and he couldn’t keep the smile off his face if he tried. “That was a good present.” 

Lance huffs a laugh. “I can give you another one.”

“Please,” Keith says. He parts his lips again and tilts his head. 

“Uncle  _ Laaaance _ !” 

Keith jumps, but this time he and Lance stay close as their attention swivels to one of the children on the floor, playing with a small plastic model Green Lion. 

“Stop making out and come play with me!” she shouts.

Chuckling, Lance looks back at Keith. “We’ll save that one for later, then.”

Keith smiles and shrugs his assent and takes Lance’s word for it. 

They play Voltron with the kids for a little while until Lance manages to extract both of them with the excuse that they have to help cook, which they do. The kitchen is bustling and full of cheerful family members trying to help, so after washing some tableware Keith retreats back to a corner and watches Lance, who’s laughing with his brother as they prepare the ham. 

After a while, Lance seems to feel Keith’s eyes on him, because he glances up and grins at him, that huge, sunny, goofy thing that sets Keith’s face and heart ablaze. He backs away from the food and nudges his way through the crowd at the sink to wash his hands before returning to Keith’s side. 

“Wanna try some of the rice and beans?” Lance asks. “I can grab you a plate.”

“Uh, sure,” Keith says, a little off-guard. He shifts uncomfortably. “But I want to ask you something first.”

Lance raises both eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“You know the big New Year’s party they’re having at the Garrison?” Keith says quietly. 

“Yeah?” Lance replies. “You going?” 

Keith nods. “I was wondering if you wanted to go with me.” 

The look Lance gives him is shrewd and scrutinizing. “As your friend?” 

Keith leans forward. Reaches in. Snags Lance’s palm among his fingers, and feels the smooth, well-kept softness of it. 

“As my boyfriend.”

Lance’s face lights up like a traffic light, cheeks and the tips of his ears instantly red. He hand squeezes, probably unconsciously, against Keith’s own, and he blinks at him once, twice before saying, “Yeah, uh, yeah. For sure! Uh. Gonna go get that rice now.”

And then he teeters off stiffly towards the stove, where his aunt is stirring something. Keith watches him go with a fond smile. He’s just...he’s so impossibly cute that Keith can barely handle the way it makes his chest feel sometimes. 

* * *

The rest of Christmas Day passes in a blur of contentment. Keith can’t remember the last time he felt this at peace. Surrounded by a loving, welcoming family with Lance warm at his side. It makes him feel at ease in a way that he’s completely unfamiliar with, but one that he finds that he likes.

After the games, after the delicious dinner, after the chitchat and the excitement have all died down, Lance turns to Keith and raises his eyebrows at him, jerking his head towards the stairs. Keith gets up, bids everyone a good night alongside Lance, and then follows him up to their room. 

Neither of them turns the light on upon entering. Moonlight and its reflection off the fallen snow shafts through the blinds in alternating stripes of bright and dark, highlighting the edges of Lance’s face. He goes to sit on the side of the bed, and when Keith enters behind him he shuts the door. 

He takes a few slow, deliberate steps towards Lance, whose bright eyes and upturned face follow him as he nears. Unable to stay away now that he has what he’s wanted for so long, he ends up standing between his knees, facing him, arms resting on his shoulders and around his neck. 

“It’s not so bad,” Keith says. “Sharing this room with you.”

Lance tilts his head to the side and smiles up at him. His eyes catch and spin the light, his eyelashes each outlined like thin spiderwebs. He’s beautiful, now as he always is, and in this house full of people who love him he’s happy and whole. Keith wants to show him how that makes him feel. He wants to give Lance just a little bit of the warmth that Lance has afforded him. 

But it’s Lance, first, who puts his hands on Keith’s waist and pulls him in, so that Keith has no choice but to throw his legs over Lance’s and straddle his lap. Keith obeys his impulses to cup Lance’s face in his hands, and follows his line of sight down towards Lance’s face, laying a soft kiss to his lips. 

Lance responds in turn. He opens and lets the kiss unfold, allowing Keith to press against him again and again. Unhurried, tender, Keith takes what he’s been wanting for as long as he’s allowed himself to want. Lance’s mouth, as he feels it out with his own, is warm and wet and welcoming. 

Keith slips his hands back further. One cradles the base of his skull, finding purchase in the short hair, while the other slides down his neck and over his back. Here he can get even closer, nudge himself up fully into Lance’s space, which he does, wildly, without abandon. 

Suddenly, the kiss is blazing. Keith feels it as molten heat flowing from everywhere he’s in contact with Lance. From the tips of his fingers, down his spine, rising in his gut like fanned flames. He presses himself to Lance, wishing that he could somehow get closer, closer, like he could happily wrap himself in Lance’s flesh and muscle and heat. Lance’s tongue sweeps through his mouth, one hand in the back of his hair, the other clutching at his waist, pulling him in with all the strength he has. Keith is just as desperate, his fists gripped in Lance’s shirt. He slides his thighs forward against Lance’s just to feel the muscles in his legs. Lance makes a small sound of want in the back of his throat that makes Keith bear down more, catch his bottom lip between his teeth and give it a nip. 

With a whine, Lance’s hips jerk up, and Keith gets the obscene pleasure of feeling Lance’s hard length rub against him through his pants. 

Immediately, Lance breaks away, breathing hard. 

“Sorry,” he says quickly, obviously abashed. “I...it’s, uh….”

“Shh,” Keith says, and grabs Lance’s hand. He keeps his eyes trained on Lance’s face, his downcast gaze, as he pulls his hand down to cup where Keith is very obviously hard in his pants too. 

“Oh,” Lance says. 

Keith breathes a laugh. “Oh?” 

“We’re at my family’s house,” Lance says, almost weakly, looking around as though he expects cousins to come spilling out of his closet at any second. He shuffles his weight nervously, not meeting Keith’s gaze. For a second Keith is afraid he’s gone too far, that he’s the only one who’s been wanting this, that he’s pushed Lance beyond the boundaries of his desires. But then Lance’s eyes flick back up to his face, and he takes a deep breath. 

“But, uh, I’d really like to...uh, do that kind of thing....”

Keith presses his lips together in order to ward off another laugh, but clambers off Lance’s lap. 

“We’ll be quiet,” he promises, and drops to his knees. 

He looks up at Lance, whose bottom lip is now trapped between his teeth, his eyes unwavering where they rest on Keith. 

“Is this okay?” Keith asks in a low voice. He raises both hands to the inseams of Lance’s thighs. 

Lance swallows audibly and nods. 

Keith tries to make it slow, tender, deliberate, but he’s been waiting to get his hands on Lance for so long that at the slightest sensation of heat beneath the fabric of Lance’s jeans, Keith loses all his will for patience. He slides his hands up the insides of Lance’s thighs until he’s hovering over his zipper. He can’t find the fortitude to look up at Lance’s face right now, so he focuses completely on getting the pants unfastened, and then Lance is helping him slide them down over his legs. 

The snowflake print of Lance’s underwear is already stretched and deformed by the length of his hard cock underneath it. Instinctively, Keith licks his lips, and from somewhere above him he hears the sound of a sharp inhale. 

Yeah. Yeah, this is happening. Keith curls his fingers in the waistband, tugs it down, and, for what he hopes is the first time of many, lays his eyes on Lance, beautiful and completely uncovered. 

His heartbeat races. He takes Lance gently between his fingers, and with all his focus given to this single, intimate task, he parts his lips and lowers his mouth onto him. At the first prod of his tongue against the head, Lance jerks in his mouth. The flavor of his precome is distinctive and grounding as Keith slowly, slowly wets the shaft with his mouth, tasting inch by careful inch. 

Lance places a trembling hand against the back of his head as he reaches the extent of his ability. It seems more there to keep himself steady than to push Keith to any particular place, but Keith revels in the weight of it there, and the weight of Lance’s length on his tongue. As he pulls off to go in again, Lance sighs above him, and Keith rewards him with a suck to his head. Lance’s thighs jump with it, and Keith finds himself chuckling around the bulk in his mouth.

He’s so responsive. He’s so responsive and it’s absolutely beautiful, in the way he bites back his quiet moans, the deep and shallow inhales, the sighs, the low, pleased sounds from the back of his throat. He’s responsive in his hands, where he tightens and loosens his fingers in Keith’s hair with the tides of his breathing. In the aborted motions of his hips, like he’s trying so hard to be respectful of Keith’s space but he can barely help himself. In the spill of precome into Keith’s mouth. In the warmth and the connection between them. 

And when Keith raises his eyes, takes a second off focusing on his work to catch a glimpse of Lance over him, Lance is watching him with a burning heat, an intensity so strong that Keith feels it jolt down the length of his spine. 

It’s not very long before Lance’s thighs are tensing, his fingers scrabbling against the back of Keith’s head. 

“Keith,” he rasps, making an effort to push him away. “Keith, get off, I’m gonna—”

But Keith digs deeper, sucks harder, and it’s so,  _ so _ worth it for the feeling of Lance jolting in his mouth, for the sensation of wet warmth hitting the back of his throat, for the desperate, bitten-off sound Lance makes above him. 

All that’s left in the room when Keith pulls off of him is the sound of his accelerated breathing and the shine of his bright blue eyes. 

“Oh my god,” Lance says. “ _ Keith _ .”

Keith grins and pushes himself up to his feet so he can sit next to Lance. 

“Any good?”

“Amazing,” Lance sighs, and the dreamy smile on his face lifts Keith to higher planes of existence. 

Lance lays Keith back on the bed next, and Keith watches and he travels down his body, blue eyes staring back at him through the dimness of the room as he opens his mouth for him. It’s incredible, watching Lance work, and before long he has Keith’s back arching off the bed, Keith’s hands making fists in the pillow under his head. When he comes into the smooth, silken wet heat of Lance’s mouth it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. 

He’s still breathing hard when Lance crawls back up him for a kiss. Keith doesn’t mind that the taste of himself is still on Lance’s tongue. He does mind that they’re both still wearing shirts, though. He wants to feel Lance’s bare skin on his own, just to hold him, and cover himself in his warmth. 

So together they burrow under the covers, naked and pressed together, hands clasped between them, forehead to forehead. Lance is smiling at him, one of the biggest, brightest smiles Keith has ever seen on anyone. 

“Thanks for coming here with me,” he says. 

Keith wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the universe right now, but he doesn’t know quite how to put the depth of his feelings into words. 

“Thanks for inviting me,” he says instead. 

“You’re always invited,” Lance replies. “Every Christmas from now for as long as you want me.”

_ Forever _ , thinks Keith unhelpfully, and he holds the idea of that tight to himself, as tight as he’s holding Lance. 

But he’s happy with his right now. He’s happy to be in this moment, holding Lance, Lance holding him. 

Not too shabby for a first Christmas, he thinks to himself as he drifts to sleep in Lance’s arms. 

**Author's Note:**

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